


The Muzzle

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 18:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13128948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: Cesare vowed to speak his true heart to Micheletto once the muzzle was fixed against his servant's face.





	The Muzzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



“And who’s to stop me?” Micheletto asked. Time had dulled the pain in his voice, but Cesare Borgia could hear the echo of the wound that betrayal left in his spirit. “You?”

Cesare felt a sudden pang of remorse, filling the back of his mouth with bitter bile—a new and repugnant sensation, a new and repugnant emotion. Straightaway he turned to Micheletto—bad habits die hard—in search of reassurance or a vent to the feeling.

Micheletto’s eyes fell on him with his usual respect. After the horrible sacrifice he asked from him, Cesare expected a less deferential treatment.

The words tumbled from Micheletto’s parched lips: “I’m dead.”

Micheletto believed his own words and yet the hard fingers that enclosed Cesare’s wrist and the palm that covered Cesare’s fingers were steady. It was the same hand that used to kill at his behest and it had the coldness of the grave.

The rest of his advice was given in rushed words. It was as sound advice as ever. Cesare heeded it, but his mind was distracted. Loyalty had brought Micheletto back and those words were his parting gift. It represented the last stab in the back of his enemies to further Cesare’s agenda. The parricidal present of a dead man should be appreciated in its full weight.

Micheletto’s departure shook Cesare to the core. It wasn’t sadness, it was anger. Sweat ran down the line of his jaw. His fingers ran through the locks of his hair. Cesare noticed his hands were not shaking against the flap of his tent when he pushed it open and signaled the disappearing shadow. Micheletto was in no rush to abandon the encampment. His indifference gave potency to Cesare’s voice as he spoke his will.

“Don’t let that man go away!” The command felt so right that he repeated it twice.

The best part of it was the surprised look on Micheletto’s face. That stray dog was never flat-footed; he sprang out like a rabbit and ran away. He was now the prey and Cesare set his hounds on his trail.

His army was not ready. Cesare doubted there would ever be any man ready to face Micheletto, but his men were particularly inept at the task. Micheletto knocked one out and tripped another before reaching the open fields of Forlì. Cesare knew Micheletto was bound to be deadlier in his ancestral home, but that didn’t stop him from sending his men in pursuit.

One man got lucky and reached for Micheletto, but his hands only tore the dirty cape off his back. Micheletto slid from the garment with ease. Cesare was surprised to spy the dirty shirt over his shoulders. The fact Micheletto was underprepared to face the invading army spoke volumes of his lack of will. Cesare saw a challenge there, and smiled when the second man tried to hold what he assumed was a regular peasant of the region. The mistake was obvious when Micheletto tossed him out of his back and applied elbows and knees to the soft flesh of the soldier’s gut.

Four men put aside with ease so far. Cesare knew he would need his whole army to seize Micheletto, but if that was the price, he wouldn’t dare to spend it. Micheletto must be brought to heel, with his broken heart and his deadly arts. If Micheletto’s spirit got wrecked in the process, Cesare was willing to forge it again to its former lethal glory.

Another two men fell over Micheletto as he was finishing the fourth man. Micheletto fought them, empty-handed, part of his former nature showing despite appearances. Cesare felt his heart beat against his ribs when Micheletto’s fist knocked off a couple of teeth. Men with torches approached but Cesare brought them to a halt with a sign. Micheletto’s performance was meant to be completed in the dark; light would spoil Cesare’s pleasure of seeing the man alive again.

“I can take him down with one bolt,” a man suggested with his hand in his crossbow.

“I want him alive,” Cesare declared, his eyes trained to Micheletto and his way to dispatch yet another man.

“As you see fit, my lord.” The reply sounded like his lieutenant was ready to disagree.

Cesare didn’t care a fig about that man’s view; he noticed the escalation of violence. Micheletto had noticed each opponent was slowing down his departure and more were in his way. Cesare anticipated he would use deadly force soon. One soldier or two were of little worth; a dozen or more wouldn’t be so trifling. The questions about Micheletto’s capture began to form into his brain, but he shut that down. He was ready to immolate any amount of lives to have his man back again.

Two men approached Micheletto. Each of them reached for his dirty neck, each of them failed to hold him fast, but their failure allowed a third one to lock his arms over his throat. Micheletto tossed his head back, and the wet snap of a broken nose was his reward, but he couldn’t shake his stubborn assailant off. Two more men tried to hold his legs and Micheletto kicked left and right with desperate strength. His raspy breath and the curses of the soldier could be heard to the walls of the castle, Cesare was sure.

More men came, with better armor, and helped the first man to pin Micheletto down. Cesare was almost disappointed until a man sprang out of the melee howling with his hand on his face.

“He bit me!” the soldier was shouting as he tried to hold the gushing blood. “The son of a whore bit me!”

“Lieutenant,” Cesare called as a smile formed on his lips. His teeth shone as a wolf fangs would as he commanded, “Be sure the men put a good muzzle on the prisoner. Then bring him to my tent.”

Cesare turned his back to the brawl. The fight was over, after all. Soon, Micheletto would be brought to him, in chains and roughed up, bloodied and caked with mud. Micheletto would be exhaust and muzzled but he was back to his place at Cesare’s feet.

In that moment, defeated and broken and confined, Micheletto would know how much Cesare thought of him all the time he served under Cesare’s whim. Cesare would pet his long hair and would look Micheletto in the eye in silence to read the depths of his servant’s mind. When Micheletto finally succumbed—because as the sun is warm and the night is dark, he would, and would only, surrender to Cesare—Cesare would say: “You are mine again, and the world will be ours.”

The thrilling idea made Cesare shiver. The world had better prepare: with Micheletto by his side, only God would stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> AlexSeanchai provided edition and encouragement for this fic. The author expresses gratitude for their invaluable help.


End file.
